Descent to Madness
by Baleful Eyes
Summary: Madness. That's what his life was. Memories of his time as the Hero of Kvatch are revisited as the Daedric Prince comes face-to-face with a young, brave–or perhaps, foolish–heroine,


Theodyn Ashcroft had only ever been drawn a few specific things: fun, adventure, and gold. The latter two usually landed him in trouble, but that was often fun in of itself.

He'd found himself getting into trouble from a young age, usually getting caught doing something illegal. Stealing food, pick-pocketing, picking the lock of a building so that he wouldn't have to sleep outside on a particularly cold night. Sure he would end up in prison on the odd occasion, but hey, free food and a place to sleep? He could think of worse fates.

Still, the Breton was far from selfish. He would help people out when he saw fit: give a beggar a few coins, get rid of some bandits, kill a few people for a Daedric Prince.

Then of course there was that time he hadn't expected to get out of prison at all. He'd been stupid and careless to have ended up in there in the first place. Noticing a man on the streets who was clearly poor and offering him a few septims if he caused a distraction. Sure, the Imperial had been all for it at first, until he realized that Ashcroft was going to still the money from a merchant, and then he had started calling for the guards. That was the last time the Breton would make that mistake again.

Seriously; he thought it would be the last time he even had a _chance _to make a mistake ever again, fearing that he'd be sent to the chopping block, as the Dunmer in the adjacent cell had suggested.

"That's right—you're going to _die _in here, Breton! You're going to _die!_" the elf had jeered.

That's when the madness began.

A secret door; and they didn't even try to prevent him from going through! He'd never bothered trying to escape from prison before, but it was as if the world was practically _asking _him to.

Then the Emperor of Cyrodiil told him that he was some sort of prophesized hero. He was fairly certain that the man was diluted, but he had died, just like he said he would. He'd been right about one thing.

"Just think of it as a quest," he'd told himself. The idea of doing as the emperor had asked posing some sort of challenge made the idea more appealing to him. Even if his request _had _seemed rather simple; not that it had been.

That Martin fellow had been rather stubborn, refusing to leave until the ominous portal of doom was dealt with so that he was certain the people would be safe. How noble.

So Theodyn had had to enter the blasted thing and try to figure out how to stop it. He had stepped into the depths of Oblivion itself. Strangely enough, he hadn't really been fazed. Threats and people trying to kill him for no apparent reason appearing around practically every corner; all it needed was a drunk or two and a couple of cutpurses and it would have felt like home.

And he'd done it. He had closed the portal, almost unbelieving that he had actually done so, but this was merely the beginning. Only the start of what would come to be known as the Oblivion Crisis.

It had opened up a variety of new opportunities for the young Breton. He'd spent the majority of his life in the Imperial City, but this gave him a chance to explore. From city to city, taking on whatever tasks people had for him that he found to be of interest. Giving a beggar a coin and learning of the notorious Thieves' Guild. Murdering some people for Mephala and ending up coming face-to-face with a member of the Dark Brotherhood.

But it had all become rather _boring _after a while, to be honest. Sure dealing with Mehrunes Dagon and his lackeys was rather enjoyable. It even looked like things were beginning to take an exciting turn when the Daedric Prince had crossed through the plains of Oblivion and entered Nirn itself, but Martin had cut that spectacle short when he decided to turn into a dragon god. Hardly sporting, to say the least.

Even his adventures with the Thieves' Guild and the Brotherhood seemed to come to an end, as if the climax had come and gone, leaving him with its boring resolution. Theodyn became master of the Thieves' Guild, and what did he have to show for it? A nice fox hat that was barely enough to keep out the cold. Soon after the Dark Brotherhood lost his interest; one can only assassinate so many people before it begins to lose its thrill. Not to mention having to sit around and listen to the Night Mother. He'd never been much of a listener.

It all began to seem rather dull, the life he had once found exciting, adventurous, crazy and unpredictable, now seemed rather… _normal_.

Then a new opportunity had arrived when a strange portal was said to have appeared to at Niben Bay. Well, the last time he had stepped through a strange, otherworldly portal he ended up having quite the adventure, and so deciding to go through the portal seemed rather appealing to him. Stepping into the unknown, into the planes of a realm neither man nor mer had yet to return from. What seemed like madness to everyone else was simply a pleasant change of pace for him.

It was insane. Ashcroft had seen a lot of crazy things in his time, but this took the cake. Eventually, he conquered even this, taking on the role of Sheogorath, knowing that this, too, would eventually lose his interest. If not, he still might have to leave anyway, though; if this dimension would eventually eat away at his mind, as it did with Sheogorath, he wanted no part of it.

And yet, it was strangely enjoyable, and he couldn't help but want to stay, the thrill of this unpredictable realm a never ending source of entertainment.

He had told all this to dear Pelagius, of course, though the man was such a grouch, unable to share in the joy which Ashcroft—or rather, Sheogorath—constantly felt. Fine, let him continue on with his miserable afterlife. It was no skin off the Daedric Prince's back.

But what was this? A mortal, come to visit him in the mind of Pelagius, perhaps? He stood still in amusement, watching out of the corner of his eye as the confused Nord woman timidly approached him, looking distorted, yet confident in her gate.

"How rude! Can't be bothered to host an old friend for a decade or two."

"I was sent to deliver you a message," said the young Nord, deciding it would be best not to question things and instead just go with it. Quite like he always had.

"Reeaaaallllyyyy?," he mused. "Ooh, ooh, what kind of message? A song? A summons? Wait, I know! A death threat written on the back of an Argonian concubine! Those are my favorites.  
"Well? Spit it out, mortal. I haven't got an eternity! Actually… I do. Little joke.  
"But seriously. What's the message?"

"I was asked to retrieve you retrieve you from your vacation," she said.

"Were you now? By whom?  
"Was it Molag?" he guessed. "No, no... Little Tim, the toymaker's son? The ghost of King Lysandus? Or was it… Yes! Stanley, that talking grapefruit from Passwall.  
"Wrong on all accounts, aren't I? Ha! No matter! Honestly, I don't want to know. Why ruin the surprise? But more to the point. Do you—tiny, puny, expendable little mortal—actually think you can convince me to leave? Because that's… crazy."

He giddily noted the bug-eyed look on the woman's face as she finally came to the realization that Sheogorath was completely insane.

He was completely mad—and he knew it. He had once been so confident that he would retain his sanity, even in this world where madmen and fools alike resided, but he'd lost his grip on reality, just as all the others who entered had. His sanity had been taken out from under him when he hadn't expected it. A terrifying thought, honestly.

He was just another madman—albeit, an important one—in his world of lunacies and paranoia, all equal parts insane.

But the maddest thing of all… was that he didn't mind it anymore.


End file.
